


Advent calendar drabble #23

by begformercytwice



Series: Advent Calendar 2012 [23]
Category: Boardwalk Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begformercytwice/pseuds/begformercytwice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard's injury, and its aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent calendar drabble #23

He was on his back, blinded and bleeding, before he knew what had happened. His first thought was that he was dead, and this was hell; the pain radiating through his head and body was like nothing human. Every agonising second passed like an eternity in which he could neither see nor hear anything, but feel every nerve in his body like it was aflame.

When he was on the table, he came to his senses enough to hear the medic saying there was nothing to be done. The kid's lost so much blood, he was saying, there's really no hope for him. And even if there were, what kind of life was he going to have with half a face? Kinder to pump him full of morphine and let nature take its course.

They told him afterwards that the only reason he was alive was because the casualties just wouldn't stop arriving. The medic had been called away to deal with an emergency amputation, and no one had been willing to administer the lethal dose. Some nights, lying there, deformed, destroyed, and in agony, he wished they'd had the courage.

When he tried to ask for water, he found he couldn't speak. Trying to get up made his head spin, and his legs did nothing but tremble when he tried to move them. Every breath he took burned his throat like poison gas, and he coughed up so much blood they feared he'd caught consumption.

Over the weeks and months of his recovery, his voice came back, after a fashion, although each word felt like a razor in his throat. They made him get out of bed and walk, whether he wanted to or not, and slowly his strength came back to him. When he saw his mutilated face in the mirror for the first time, he refused to show any emotion, but made a show of accepting his new life with stoicism. Only after he was alone did he let the tears come.

In his dreams, he was still whole. He was out shooting in the fields, with not a soul in sight, and no thought of war or the horrors it held. There was no pain, no shame. He could do what he was good at, and what he loved. He was happy, and it made waking up every morning that much harder.


End file.
